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Awards

 

Distinguished Author & Artist Award, 2014

First Place Award, Great American Song Contest, 2014

Second Place Winner for Poetry

Many Honorary Mentions

A Fist of Bees / The Story

 

A Fist of Bees Cover Art

 

Eat my fist, Woodhead!

The story I am about to tell you began way back in 1958, on a cold winter’s day, the year Peter Woods turned Thirteen. By the way, I’m Peter, the one they called Woodhead.

Buy A Fist of Bees

I was sitting on my toboggan at the top of Kill Hill; everything covered in snow for as far as I could see. We called it Kill Hill, or the Kill, because it fell off the edge of the escarpment like a cliff. A row of pine trees grew along the right side of the to­boggan trail. The record, the farthest anyone had ever tobogganed, was the fourteenth tree, the fourteenth tree from the bottom, that is. And the record was held by three local bullies. We called them the Rats. Boy, did they ever live up to their nicknames. First there was Word, red headed, blue eyed and freckled. Word never talked. Not at school. Not in the neigh­bourhood. Not even at home, as far as us kids knew. Then there was Meat Bomb, the biggest kid in school, he size of a sumo wrestler. But as big as he was, his voice was as squeaky as a squeezed mouse.

The leader of the gang was Fist, the meanest kid in school.

"Eat my fist," he'd say, and that fist of his was spring loaded. He had clipped me in the chin that very day to prove it. That's why I was out to beat the record, to beat the Rats.

I dug my gloved hands into the snow, rocked back and forth, then pushed off. The cold air slammed into my face as I dropped almost straight down, straight for The Funnel. If I missed The Funnel, I'd slam into a thick mesh of thorn bushes on either side. Those thorns - crab apple thorns they were - they had a nasty habit of catching you where it hurt most, in some fleshy part of the body. (swish)

Oh, I flew through the Funnel without a scratch. Then came The Horse Trail, four curves in all, followed by the long straightaway. As I flew past the eighteenth tree, I was going faster than ever, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen –

Whooweeeee! I beat the record! Me, Peter Woods, I beat ... the ... Rats!

Then a long slow glide to a stop all the way past the twelfth tree. That’s when I saw it, about fifteen meters to my right, hanging from under the eaves of a derelict old barn, an icicle, a huge icicle, wider at the top than my father could reach from side to side, taller than he could stretch his hands over his head. And it hung all the way down to the snow. Then I realised.

That's not an icicle. That's honeycomb. That's, that’s a wild beehive. I beat the record; I found the biggest wild beehive in the world; wait until I tell every …Oh, no! I can't. I can't tell anyone. If I tell my best friend, he'll tell his best friend, best friend to best friend, all the way down to the rats. Even if I only tell about beating the record, the Rats will be on me. Fist first.

Where’s the proof, Woodhead?

 Ya, Woodhead, where's the proof? We want proof, don't we, Word?

And if they stood where I stood that day, they'd see the hive. And if they did, they'd trash it. There was no way out. If I wanted to keep the hive safe, I had to keep my mouth shut

I grabbed the rope of my toboggan and headed back up hill. The sky had turned grey. It began to snow. And by the time I reached the top of the Kill, my tracks were already half covered.



***

Now, keeping the secret about beating the record wasn't as difficult as I had expected. With my tracks buried, no one would have believed me anyway. But the hive, that was different. The hive was still down there. It played on my mind day and night all winter long. Then when spring came … hmmm … I almost let the Rats into the honey jar, as it were.

You see, we used to take an old yellow school bus to and from school. Old Norton was the driver. One spring afternoon, Old Norton pulled the bus up to our stop. I jumped off ahead of the rats and the other neighbour-hood kids and was heading home. Then I noticed wild flowers growing along the side of the road and honey bees lots and lots of honey bees. Fool that I was I knelt down right there in among those wildflowers, started talking to those bees.

Hi, bees. How’s your hive? Can I come for a visit? I totally forgot who was behind me.

Look at Buzz Head, buzzin' with the bees.

Buzz Head! That's a good one. What do you think, Word? Is that a good name, or what, for a bee lover?

Word answered with that silent stare of his.

Then a fly flew in front of Fist's face. He snatched at it, caught it in mid air, shook it by his ear, to listen to hear it buzz, then slammed it down against the gravel road. It spun on its back, then he crushed it with the heel of his boot. 

 That's what I think of your bees, Buzz Head.

Buzz Head. I still like that name. What do you think, Word?

I shouldn’t have said what I said next

That wasn't a bee. That was a fly.

Eat my fist!

And that fist of his, that spring loaded fist of his clipped me right in the chin.

Buck me one more time, Buzz Head, and I'll bust your face wide open.

He'll bust him right in two, won't he, Word?

The three of them laughed and then headed off. Now Meat Bomb’s T-shirt hung high and his blue jeans hung low and between the two, his huge butt crease was in clear view.

The other kids and me, we watched as a bee landed on the back of Meat Bomb's belt. Then it disappeared down that huge butt crease of his. A moment later, Meat Bomb really lived up to his nickname. When that bee sunk its stinger into Meat Bomb’s flesh, you should have seen him explode!

***

From that day on, I found it more and more difficult to stay away from the hive. But I had to–so I did the next best thing: I read about bees. I brought a whole stack of books home from the library, dumped them on my bed and dug in. I've never seen Mom so excited.

Peter, you're reading. My boy is reading. Oh, I'm so proud of you, son.

Until that day, I had hated reading. You could have tied a book to my face and I still wouldn't have read it. But reading about bees, that was different. No one told me to read about bees. I did it for me. And that first day I enjoyed reading so much, I've loved it ever since.

The scientific word for a beekeeper is apiarist. A.P.I.A.R.I.S.T.

An apiarist wears a bee outfit to keep from be­ing stung, a pantsuit sort of deal, heavy boots, thick work gloves, everything tucked in tight to keep the bees out, and a net hat affair for the head. It looks kind of spacey.



The best beekeepers are gentle with their bees. And the best of the best make friends with their bees. They can even work barehanded. The bees won't sting, because they’re friends.

Now in the fall, they hold bee festivals. One event fascinated me. They call it the bee beard event!

First, a beekeeper puts one of his queens on his chin. Queens can't fly, so she stays put. Then two assistants, wearing thick gloves to keep from being stung, shovel handfuls of bees out of that queen's bees hive and place them on the beekeeper's chin.

The bees don't fly away; they stick close to protect their queen.

Then all those bees, hun­dreds, maybe thousands of bees, are moulded into a bee beard. Then I thought, “what if I, Peter Woods, wore a bee beard to school. I'd walk right up to Fist...”

Pull my bee beard. Go ahead. I dare you.

* * *



That summer, it was hot. It seemed as if everyone had gone away on holidays to get away from the heat. Except the Rats and me, and I wasn't going to have anything to do with them. Finally, I decided…

I’ve got to see my bees.

But not the way I was dressed: in runners, blue jeans, and a T-shirt.

It was Saturday. Mom and Dad were out shopping. They always went shopping on Saturday. And my older brother, Rick, well, he was off doing what older brothers do. I grabbed an extra pair of blue jeans out of my closet, to wear over the pair I already had on. The bees couldn't sting through two pair. I hunted down my spring jacket, an old pair of rubber boots, and a pair of Dad's work gloves. With everything tucked in tight, I wouldn’t get stung, except for my face. I still needed a net hat.

I snuck into Mom's and Dad's bedroom. I opened Mom's side of the closet. Oh, the smell of her perfume went straight to my head. I almost chickened out.

Then I held my nose and dove in. I pulled out a large round box - Mom's Easter Bonnet. It had a wide brim and silk wild flowers all over it. I pushed the box back in the closet, closed the door, then hurried down stairs to the basement. Over in the corner, behind a sheet of ply­wood, stood an old screen door. I took out my jack-knife, I cut out the screen, then headed back up stairs. Up in the kitchen, I sewed the screen around the rim of Mom's Easter Bonnet.

If Mom finds out, she'll skin me alive.

But I couldn’t think about that. I packed my bee gear into a shop­ping bag, then headed out the front door, and Cadey, my dog, came bounding after me.

Cadey, be a good girl. Go lie down. Stay.

 I should have chained her up. I was about to, when I looked up the road.

Oh, no, it can’t be. Not the Rats!

I made a quick dash across the road and ducked into the bush.

Oh, if they saw me, I’m finished.

Boy, was I lucky. They headed up a pasture lain.

Cow patty tag—they’re off to play cow patty tag.

Still, I took no chances. I took the long way, straight east, through the bush, as far as the burned out tree, then south. Then I circled back. I came out into a large meadow, turned west, then headed back to the Horse Trail almost straight south from where I had started, but south of The Kill.

Just before the Horse Trail, I climbed an old wire fence. It almost collapsed under me, it was so rusted out.

Then with the twelfth tree between me and the hive, my heart pounding, I pulled off my runners and put on my bee gear.

If anyone sees me wearing Mom's Easter Bonnet, I'll never live it down.

But the moment I stepped out from behind the twelfth tree, the only fear I had was the fear of being stung.

Within seconds, the bees were on me. I was covered from head to foot. I stared out through the screen of my net hat as they stared in at me. I could see the pollen pouches on their legs packed with yellow pollen and their stingers as they tried to sting me through the screen. All I could hear was the buzzing thunder, a thunderous buzzing hum.

I went back the next day, the next, and the next. Every day, the bees were on me. But my bee-proof outfit had worked. I never got stung, and I never missed a day. With each visit, I took a step or two closer, stayed an hour, two hours, sometimes three. And as the weeks passed, as I got closer and closer to the hive, fewer and fewer bees landed on me. And finally, those that did no longer tried to sting me. I had done what all good beekeepers try to do. I had made friends with the bees.

Then one day, in late August, after over two months of visiting my bees, I stood close enough to touch the hive. It was a very hot day. The hive was covered with bees. They were fanning their wings to keep it cool. Even so, there in front of me lay a small open section of hive where there were no bees, and I could see a drop of honey as it oozed out of one of the honey cells. Oh, I wanted so much to taste that honey. Then, without even thinking I took off one of my gloves. Oh, they were on me. They landed on my hand, a dozen or so bees. Oh, but they didn’t sting me.

That's when I came up with my great idea.

* * *



The next day was Sat­urday. Mom and Dad were out shopping. My older brother Rick, well, he was off doing what older brother's do. I went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, took down a squeeze bottle of honey, put it in my shopping bag, un­der Mom's Easter Bonnet, and off I went.

Cadey tried to follow me again. (bark ,bark)

Stay girl, stay. Go lie down.

I headed across the road into the bush. Took the long way around, checking every step of the way to make sure that I wasn’t being followed.

Once down at the twelfth tree, I put my bee gear on, except for my gloves, squeezed honey all over one of my hands, then walked out from behind the twelfth tree.

Before long, I had bees all over my honey hand. They were one, two, three bees thick. I had a fist of bees. Then I realized:

What have I done? How can I get them off? I’ll never get them off. Go on bees. Off you go.

Then I heard a dog barking way off in the distance, beyond the Kill.

That’s my dog, that’s Cadey.

Cadey had a bad habit of chasing kids on bicycles. That’s why I was supposed to chain her up.

If she was caught again, she'd be sent to the pound.

 She'll be given a needle ... one of those needles. She'll be put to sleep. I'll never see her again.

I tore my net hat off and headed up the trail, the bees still on my hand buzzing all the way. I didn't stop until the other side of the bush, well beyond the Kill. I came out next to the road, across from my house, tall grass and a shallow ditch between me and the road.

Cadey was chasing three kids on bicycles - the Rats. And the Rats were pelting Cadey with stones.

That's why she chases kids on bicycles. It was the Rats all along.

Then Fist, he saw me. He reached into his unbuttoned shirt, where he kept his stones. But he pulled out a rock. As Cadey went for his ankle, he threw it straight down, caught her between the eyes.

She tumbled into the middle of the road, her paws clutching at her forehead. Whining, crying like a baby, she jumped up, then ran for the house.

You leave my dog alone!

Fist spun his bike around, headed straight for me, Meat Bomb right beside him. They skidded to a stop, the ditch and tall grass the only things between me and them, the two of them straddling their bikes like Hell’s Angels.

Eat my fist!

Then I remembered what I had on my hand. With my free hand, I pushed the tall grass out of my way, stepped over the ditch, walked right up to Fist, and shook my fist in his face.

You ... eat ... my … fist.

You should have seen the look on his face.

His mouth dropped open. His eyes rolled up into his head, and he fainted right then and there. And just as he was about to fall over, Meat Bomb stuck out a huge hand and shook him back to life. Hmm huh, he opened his eyes, saw those bees on my hand, and took off up the road peddling like mad, Meat Bomb quick on his heels, Word trailing slowly behind.

Oh, as pleased as I was, I had no time to celebrate.

They know about my bees. They saw my bees. They'll be back. They won't rest until they trash the hive.

I ducked back into the bush and headed east, took an even longer way around this time, always on the lookout. If the Rats tracked me down, the hive was doomed.

I made it to the rusted out fence and the Horse Trail without being seen. I grabbed my bee gear that still lay in the grass, then hid behind the twelfth tree. I could hear Fist and Meat Bomb shouting way off in the distance.

Where's your bees, Buzz Head?

Ya’ Buzz Head. You, can't save them.

Long after they gave up the search, as the day began to cool down, I took one of my gloves and coaxed the bees off my hand, wiped the honey into the grass, then headed home.

As I stashed my bee gear behind the old screen door in the basement, I thought about Word, the shocked look on his face, when Cadey got stoned. And when he saw my bees, the look in his blue eyes. What a curious look it was, one I could not understand at the time, but would often see again, once school started. Then Mom called me upstairs.

Peter, what happened to Cadey?

I don't know, Mom.

You're supposed to chain her up. You know that.

I'm sorry, Mom. It won't happen again.

You're telling me, it won’t happen again. You're grounded, son. For two weeks.

I didn't mind being grounded. I didn't want to face the Rats anyway. Besides, it gave me time to nurse Cadey. And happily, she wasn't as badly hurt as I thought she would be. She'd always have a diamond shaped scare in the middle of her forehead to remind me of that day. But, her eyes, they never lost their sparkle, and she was just as playful as ever.

* * *

When school started in the fall, I expected the Rats to give me a lot more trouble, but they were having more trouble between themselves than with me or anyone else. I even saw Word on his own. I’d never seen that before - and the way he looked at me, that curious look in his blue eyes, as if he wanted to say something to me.

Then one day he was standing alone outside the boys change room. He caught my eye, and started walking toward me. Then, Fist and Meat Bomb came barging around the corner. Fist backed him up against the locker, slammed him up against the lockers. Then it happened.

Word said some­thing. At least it looked as if he said something. I didn't hear anything; I was too far away. But it looked as if he said, “Leave me alone. Just leave me alone!” Then Fist shot me a look - hatred pure hatred. Then the door to the boy’s change room slammed and they were gone.

Word had talked. At least, it looked as if he had talked. But the strange thing was, I forgot all about it, as if he’d never talked at all. Until I remembered months later.

* * *

From then on, the Rats hardly bothered me, until one day in late November, after an ice storm. The night before, it had snowed, then it rained that very night, and everything froze. By morning, Monday morning, there was a thin layer of ice on the surface of the snow. That ice was a sharp as glass. At lunch, I headed up to the soccer field; I was going to play, ice or no ice. And as Istarted across the field, I felt a cold shiver shoot up my spine. I spun around. My buddies hadn't followed me. But the Rats had.

My first instinct was to run, and I did. Then I changed my mind. I spun back around to face them - but one of my boots snagged in the snow, under the ice - I tripped and fell.

Meat Bomb, get him!

Meat Bomb was on me in a flash - grabbed me by the hair before I was able to get up - thrust my head down between his knees - locked them tight like a vice.

Where's your bees, Buzz Head? Where's your bees?

I won't tell you. I won't tell you were my bees are.

Word, what are you waiting for? Throw ‘em! Throw ‘em!

Then a volley of ice-packed snow­balls slammed into my back.

Meat Bomb, Pull up his jacket. Pull up his shirt. Do it!

Maybe, Word's right, Fist. Maybe, we're taking things too far.

Ain't I got enough trouble with Word, him and his mouthing off. Pull 'em up. Do i!. Or eat my fist!

Meat Bomb's legs were trembling as he pulled up my jacket then my shirt. The cold air bit into my bare back.

Word, throw it. I wanna see his back bleed.

Then snowballs started slamming into my bare back like ice-packed razor blades.

Someone's coming. Let him go. Do it.

Meat Bomb threw me down. One of our teachers was walking towards us, our math teacher, Martin McMath. We called him Marty McMath Sir. He had a great sense of humour but he wasn’t laughing that day.

What’s going on? I said what’s going on? Peter I want to know.

Mmm, nothing sir, we were wrestling, that’s all.

Wrestling? All right. If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way you get it. Detentions for the four of you. Every night this week. Be on the hard bench. Be on time, No talking. No sneaking off. Mess-up, and it's doubled. Dismissed.

Every day that week, after school, I had to sit with the Rats on the hard bench across from the principal's office, Mr Pott's office. And the longer I sat there, the madder I got.

Those Rats, they'll get there's. They aren't so hot. I beat them once. I can do it again. And I will, the first chance I get. And those bees, to heck with those bees. They've been nothing but trouble from the start. Why should I care if a bunch of bees gets trashed? If they do ... serve ... them ... right.

That Friday, almost as soon as I sat on the hard bench beside the Rats, Mr McMath stepped up to the four us. Looked straight at me and said,

Pete,r you don't belong here. Go home.

I just made it to the early bus. I told everyone that I was going to beat the record. I was going to beat the Rats.

And I was the first one to be at the Kill. I waited until everyone else arrived, except the Rats. They'd be home on the late bus, well after dark. Then once everybody was there, I jumped on my toboggan.

But all it did was dig in. It broke through the thin layer of ice and sat there stuck in the snow. Oh, I was so mad, I grabbed my toboggan, lifted it over my head then started pounding the snow. I pounded, and pounded, and pounded.

He’s crazy, Pete’s gone crazy.

Who me? Crazy? Sure, crazy mad. No, look. The ice. The snow. It’s all packed down. It’s slick. Hey, give me a hand, will ya’? We’ll build a track. We’ll pound out a track. We’ll beat the record. We'll all beat the Rats.

Pete, you are crazy.

They turned their back on me and headed home, every one of them. I never felt so alone.

To heck with them. I’ll do it myself.

And I did. I pounded out a track all the way down the Kill to the fourteenth tree. I banked all four curves and just before the fourteenth tree, I built a jump; I was going to beat the Rats in mid air.

* * *

I didn't finish until well after dark. Even so, with the moon full, and the glass-like surface of the snow shining, it made it almost as bright as day. Then back up on top of the Kill, I turned around and I thought about my bees. I called down to them, as if they could really hear me.

I-I-I’m sorry I-I really am, I-I'm sorry for what I said, I hope you don’t get trashed.

What I didn’t know was that the Rats were behind me hiding in the bush. They had been watching me. They had watched me build the track. They had heard me talk to my bees. They knew that my bees were down there. If I’d known that the rats were there, maybe I could have stopped them from doing what they planned to do. But I didn’t know, so I just walked home. And that night I was so tired, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

* * *

The next morning, I was up bright and early and out the back door, my toboggan tucked under my arm, when Mom ran after me right out into the snow wearing her slippers and terry cloth bathrobe.

Peter, where do you think you're going? You haven't even had your breakfast yet.

I-I'm in a hurry, Mom.

She shivered as she pulled her bathrobe tight to her neck.

It’s about my Easter bonnet, Peter. What happened to it?

I knew that I'd have to suffer the consequences; but I turned and ran.

* * *

By the time I reached the Kill, everyone else was already there. Except the Rats. I should have realised they were up to no good, but I didn’t think of that, I had other things on my mind. My older brother, Rick, he even turned up.

Hey! Hey, hey, hey, hey Brother Dear. Are you ever going to get it, when Mom gets hold of you?

Rick always called me Brother Dear, in front of Mom and Dad, and I hated it, but in front of my friends, I hated it even more.

Just remember I’m doing this out of brotherly love. Here I go. Hey, hey! Hey, hey, hey! I’m heading into the…

He slammed right into the thorns. Everyone cried out:

Is that what you call brotherly love?

One toboggan after the other flew off the track and headed into the thorns. Then Kelly Kitchener stepped up to the slope, Kitchen for short. All she wanted out of life was to be a happy housewife. She looked like real thorn meat the moment she pushed off, her red scarf snapping in the breeze. Her toboggan jumped the track, then Kitchen stuck out one foot, then the other - two quick jabs to the snow - tst, tst - the toboggan flew back into the track and down the Funnel. Coming into the first curve, it looked as if she was going to dump it. But she didn’t. She leaned in and took it like a pro. Then the next and the next. By the time she started into the fourth curve we were cheering.

Go, go Kitchen! Go, go Kitchen!

Then she leaned in too far. Her elbow, dug in. She flew into the air like a rag doll, her red scarf flying.

Almost as soon as she hit the snow, she was back on her feet with an Olympic cheer:

Ya! Ya! Ya!

Kitchen beat them all. And she taught me a few things. One, how to steer with my feet. Two, not to hit the curves straight on, but to lean in. And three, not to underestimate a girl, even if all she wants out of life is to be a happy housewife.

Then it was my turn. I sat on my toboggan. I dug my gloved hands into the snow, rocked back and forth, then pushed off.

Oh, no!

Almost immediately, my toboggan skipped out of the track, and headed for the thorns. I didn't know what to do.

Then I thought, “Use your feet.” Tst, tst. My toboggan flew back into the track, down the Funnel, and into the Forse Trail. Woohoo! Now thanks to Kitchen, I leaned in for all four curves. Whsh, whsh, whsh, whsh, Then came the straightaway. The trees flew by. I didn't even bother counting.

At the jump, I sailed into the air. I felt as if I were flying. Then, as my toboggan hit the snow, it went out of control. But it didn’t matter. I’d beaten the record for a second time. My toboggan flipped, and I slid across the surface of the icy snow, coming to a stop just past the twelfth tree.

Woohoo! I’d done it again.

* * *

I'd never felt so good as I did that day after beating the Rats a second time. Then as I rolled over in the direction of the old barn I noticed something strange and felt suddenly afraid, not for myself, but for the bees.

There beside me lay a large patch of trampled snow like a great round crater. The snow in the crater wasn't white like normal snow, but beige in colour, and it was speckled with salt and pepper specks. I was afraid to guess what that colour in the snow was. Then as I looked up at the barn and really saw it for the first time that day, I heard my own words flash back at me, like a baseball smashing through a plate glass window:

Serve ... them ... right.

The barn was stripped bear. That beige colour, those salt and pepper specks, that's all that was left. The Rats had trashed the hive. Stunned and ashamed, I turned away and found that I was not alone.

I was standing face to face with Word.

You, you must be real proud of what you and your friends did!

Not proud. Not proud what we do, what me do.



It took a moment for what had just happened to sink in - Word had spoken, for the first time, as far as I... Then I remembered. I had never heard him talk, but I had seen him, at least once, outside the boys change room.

Me not mean things happen. Cadey be stoned. Hive be trash. Me want say sorry.

Sorry. You, sorry?

But still, the way he spoke - not what he said, but the way he said it, as if desperate for me to understand - as if he really did care. But now he wasn’t talking, so I had to say something.

I visited my bees everyday, all summer long. By August I didn’t even have to wear my bee outfit anymore. They didn’t try to sting me anymore. We were that close. We were friends. Have you ever been that close, that close to anyone - to Meat Bomb or Fist? There were thousands of them. Every one of my friends, you and your friends trashed.

Me not friends them no more.

I don't care!

I threw off my gloves, ready to fight.

But for some reason I stopped. I looked down at my hands. My fists were clenched, my knuckles white. Then I looked at Words hands. His were almost pink from the cold. He never wore gloves. His parents couldn't afford them. He reached into one of his pockets, pulled out a book, and held it out to me.

Take, please. Please, take.

I pushed the book away, but feeling the coldness of his fingers, they were ice cold, I couldn’t resist. My anger seemed frozen by his cold hands. And then I looked into his eyes and my anger melted away. He turned and began to walk up the trail. I looked at the book. It was old and tattered, the title, though badly faded, read: The Gentle Beekeeper.

Hey, Kevin.

I'd never called him Kevin before, never called him by his real name. He turned and looked at me. I held up the book .

Thanks.

He smiled. I'd never seen him smile before. I couldn’t help but smile back.

Kevin, why’d you keep your mouth shut for so long?

Not speak good. Kids laugh at.

I didn't laugh at you, Kevin.

He smiled again then headed back up the trail.

I took one last look at the crater of trampled snow and the derelict old barn. As I did, I thought about Kevin and that curious look on his face over the past few months.

I couldn’t think of him as Word anymore, and I couldn’t blame him for what he and the Rats had done. I’d played my part; I’d led them to the hive.

I knelt down and I picked up one small piece of honeycomb. I knew that I’d never see the hive again or the thousands of bees that had become my friends. But somehow, in my heart, I knew that they had led me to a new friend and that he and I would always remember my fist of bees.



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Lyrics | by Dr. Radut